The Hollows (Part 2)

The midnight pitch scared me most. One felt the blazing sun of a golden day and instinct screamed avoidance; not so the night. A ghost should have roamed the midnight hours with carefree abandon, drifted through the wastes of forever without worry nor encumbrance, to avoid it was anathema. But avoid it we did; Death stalked those obsidian hours, and of he there was no escaping.

I saw him once, his scythe cutting through creation with impatience leaving scars of something darker than night, deeper than oblivion. I thought he’d almost spotted me from beneath his cowl of perfect evening as I slid behind a tree, my white luminance clearer than a storm cloud caught in the ravages of spewed lighting. But he didn’t, or pitied me, or both, and let me be. I would never make the same mistake again.

Of course, the others told me not to wander, not to test the patience of Death, but what else could I do? It wasn’t as if an Angel knew anything else; I glittered, that’s what I did. At least, I used to, before He clipped my wings, took my heart, cast me from the heavens. Even then, I didn’t panic, for life as a human wouldn’t have been too bad, not if it was with her, anyway. However, fate was cruel to me as I fell, and plunged, toppled and spun, then stopped in midair to drift down to earth as a feather. Life as a ghost was mine, life as a Doomed, and the Hollows would forever be my home.